


Barney Barton's Thoroughbred Stud Farm

by ThePenguinOfDeath



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Equestrian, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clint is chill, Coulson is a bit creepy, Flirting, Gymnastics, Horse Racing, Horses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4021753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePenguinOfDeath/pseuds/ThePenguinOfDeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint works with the horses on his brother's stud farm because it's the only place he can get a job. He wasn't expecting some random dude to turn up out of nowhere and start talking to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barney Barton's Thoroughbred Stud Farm

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not involved in horse racing, so the specifics may be a bit wrong. It's fiction, but I apologise if anyone is offended by any blatant mistakes I have made. I don't think there are any triggers in this fic - aside from maybe Coulson being a bit creepy - but if anyone spots any potential ones, please tell me so I can add them here as a warning.

Clint straightened his back slowly, wincing at the pain from being hunched over for too long. The metal handle of the shovel was slightly damp from his sweat, and the scent of horse shit had stopped registering hours ago. Glancing around, Clint couldn’t have been more relieved that the stable block was finally clean. It was one of those days when taking a job at his brothers stud farm had never seemed like a worse idea.

Setting the shovel to one side, Clint grabbed the now full wheelbarrow and pushed it – for the last time today – towards the muck heap. At some point between his last trip and now, the sun had dropped behind the stable block, signalling that it was almost time for the horses to come back in. Idly, Clint wondered if he had time to slip off for a cold drink before Barney sent him out to the paddocks.

Almost as if he had been summoned, Barney rounded the corner just as Clint emptied the wheelbarrow onto the muck heap.

“Clint! Finished the mucking out yet?”

Clint winced. Despite working with sensitive racehorses worth millions of pounds, Barney had never quite managed the art of talking quietly. It was a miracle the horses weren’t terrified of him.

“Just done, yeah. I need to put this back and rescue the shovel from Trick’s stable.”

“I’ve got an appointment with one of Stark’s reps in ten, and you know how specific Stark is – it could take hours. Could you bring the horses in? Get Jacques to help you, he’s being a lazy fuck.”

Barney turned away before Clint could answer. It wasn’t like he needed to wait around – he was Clint’s superior, and his big brother, and the one he owed his life and freedom to. Besides, Barney really just managed the business – he knew jack about horses. It was Jacques who had the real skill with them, and he had taught Clint enough that he could act like he understood.  
Brushing his sweaty hair back, Clint dumped the wheelbarrow outside the tack shed and went to rescue the shovel. On the way, he rapped on the door of the feed shed, certain that Jacques would be hiding behind it smoking.

Sure enough, by the time the shovel had been stacked with the other tools, Jacques had appeared with a frown and several headcollars.

“It’s too early. Trick won’t wanna come in yet, and I ain’t gonna wrestle with him – I value my arms. Manny, maybe, but he’s a sucker. I’m sure Barney won’t kill us if we wait fifteen bloody minutes.”

Clint shrugged. “Barney doesn’t know horses, he just knows business, and he wants them stabled before Stark’s rep gets here I reckon. I’ll take Trick, he likes me more than you. I’ll get Hawk as well. You can get Manny and whoever they put in the back paddock.”

“Suit yu’self. Fresh haynets in all the stables?”

“Already done. Here, I bet you a tenner I can bring in my horses before you’ve brought in yours.”

Jacques snorted. “Fools bet, boy. But a’right, I could do with a drink tonight. First one t’ the feed room.”

Clint snatched the appropriate headcollars and vaulted over the gate to the paddocks, appreciating the head start his gymnastics training gave him. Jacques wasn’t wrong – he was infinitely better with the horses than Clint was. But despite his lack of education, Clint was a quick thinker, and he wasn’t above a bit of rule-bending to win.

As he reached the paddock containing The Magnificent Hawkeye (or Hawk, as everyone called him), Clint whistled, smiling as the stallion whinnied in response and started to trot over.

“That’s right boy, come to Clint.” Hawk was probably Clint’s favourite – the first auction he’d ever been to with Barney, he’d spotted Hawk, and persuaded his brother it was a good idea to buy the headstrong horse. His galloping technique was weird for a racehorse, but Clint saw potential, and the technique certainly didn’t hinder his impressive speed.

Hawk nudged his nose against Clint’s chest, and Clint took the opportunity to slip his headcollar on.

“Alright boy. Go to bed, yeah? Bed.”

Technically, none of the horses were allowed on the yard unless they were being led on a lead rope. But Clint had done some extra training with Hawk – he reckoned the misbehaviour was boredom – and he was fairly confident that if he just let Hawk go, he would lead himself to his stable.

Sure enough, as Clint opened the gate, Hawk nudged him a final time before trotting quite happily towards the stable block.

“Is that a good idea?”

If Clint had been anyone else, he might have jumped. This was a private stud – no one should have been able to get back here unnoticed. But Clint Barton wasn’t easily spooked, so he just looked up briefly – male, late thirties, smart suit – and snorted.

“Hawk’s well trained, he goes where I tell him. I wouldn’t trust any of the other horses here, they’re nuts, but Hawk’s my baby.” He paused, shutting the gate and setting off towards Trick’s field. “You know this is private property? You’re not allowed back here without a guide.”

“I have an appointment.”

“Stark’s rep? My brothers’ office is back on the yard, dude, not out in the paddocks. Trick!” The last word was addressed to a muscular black stallion, who threw up his head in response to his name and cantered to the opposite side of the field.

“Damn.” Clint muttered.

“Whilst Tony Stark is an acquaintance of mine, I am not his representative, no. That honour falls to the lovely Miss Potts.”

Clint vaulted over the gate – not trusting Trick not to shoot out and run the fuck away if it was unlatched – and started to wander casually towards Trick.

“Are you late then? Barney never schedules any appointments after Stark’s, dude talks for too long. Excuse me.”

Trick took Clint’s ‘distraction’ as a chance to canter back across the field. Clint grinned, and as Trick moved past him, placed a hand in his mane and nimbly vaulted up.

In response, Trick bucked, and Clint’s smile widened as the stallion tanked him across the paddock. Carefully balancing himself, he reached forward and slipped the headcollar over Trick’s head. As soon as it was fastened, the horse gave up, sliding to a halt and snorting in defeat.

Smile still plastered across his face, Clint lead Trick back to the gate, catching site of the strange man still watching.

“That doesn’t seem like it was particularly wise either.” The man commented.

“I have a bet.” Clint replied simply. “Now, I’m sorry if I seem rude, but you are trespassing here and I don’t even know your name.”

“Coulson. Phil Coulson. I work for the TBA.”

The acronym sounded familiar. Clint thought about it, leading Trick down towards the stables.

“Oh, the Thoroughbred Breeders Association? As far as I know, our membership’s good ‘til March, and I can’t see any other reason why Barney would schedule an appointment. Barney runs this place. Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

“Mr. Barton – Barney, I assume – reserved two places for the Flat Stallion Parade at Tattersalls in February. The deadline for horse confirmation is in three days, and he requested a meeting before then to discuss his entries. He wanted a second opinion on the best horses to enter. I’m here to survey his horses for him.”

Clint hummed. It sounded plausible – Barney would never pick the right horses on his own – but Jacques was perfectly capable of horse selection, and even Clint could do a half decent job of it. True, he’d be biased towards Hawk, but he at least had the sense not to take Trick to an event abroad.

“Picked two, then? Let’s see if our choices match up.”

“I hadn’t had much of a chance before you appeared. I’d prefer to look at their bloodlines and history to help my choice."

“Let me win my bet and I’ll help you. Two secs, Phil.”

Clint turned away before he saw Phil's eyebrows raise slightly at the use of his first name.

Clint led Trick into the stable and unclipped the headcollar, hanging it on the hook outside. The stallion gave him a look of betrayal as he grabbed a load of hay from his haynet. Clint took a moment to bolt Hawkeye’s stable – the horse had done just as he was told and was standing quite happily in his stable.

Taking a shortcut to the feed room, Clint jumped over a saddlehorse and was pleased when he got there just before Jacques appeared.

“Getting slow in your old age!”

“Cheater.” Jacques scowled. “Alright, here’s your tenner. You’re still buying me a drink tonight.”

“Consider it done. Rusty Crown at ten?”

Jacques nodded, before sidling off for another smoke.

Clint made his way back to where Phil was patiently waiting. He wasn’t really sure he should be showing ‘confidential’ horse information to a guy who could be anyone, but this wasn’t his business, and hours of mucking out hadn’t put Barney in his best books.

“Right. We’ve got seven main stallions at the moment, which is quite a few, plus broodmares, foals and yearlings but I figure they aren’t relevant. Of the stallions, Trick Shot’s the most famous but he’s a right bastard temperament wise – today was remarkably easy really – so I’d never take him abroad. His bloodlines are stellar but he’d be feisty as hell in the ring, especially with unfamiliar stallions about. The other I brought in is The Magnificent Hawkeye – he’s my favourite, heart of gold, but his technique’s a bit... different to most racehorses. Don’t get me wrong, he’s probably the fastest here, but people are always wary of difference.”

They had reached the tackroom, and Clint shoved the wooden door open, trusting that Clint was still behind him.

“The chestnut with three white socks is The Swordsman. He’s an older boy, a bit past his best, but his racing record is impeccable and his bloodlines are fabulous. He’s got successful progeny coming out of his ears. We don’t really need to show him off, his babies speak for themselves. The other chestnut is Carnival. He’d be my choice, probably, after Hawk – he loves a chance to show off and he’s well-behaved as thoroughbreds go. Decent racing career but better paces and it’d probably help to get him some popularity.”

Clint bent over and dug around for the folder with all the paper work for the horses. He knew it was around here somewhere.

“The other three – Carson II, Arrow and Goliath – are our more ‘up and coming’ stallions. I mean, Hawk still races, and Trick does ceremonial races from time to time, but those three race regularly and have appointed jockeys. The parade might clash with their entries and there’s less of a focus on breeding with them at the moment, and more about them collecting wins and establishing themselves. I guess Arrow would be a consideration, he’s had a few big wins lately that’ll be fresh in peoples’ minds, but the fact that he’s currently racing under ‘Barton’s Arrow’ ought to make it obvious enough that he’s ours. Ahh, here’s the bloody folder.”

Clint turned around and set the folder in Phil’s hands. The man had a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You really know your horses, don’t you?” He commented.

“I wouldn’t say that. For one thing, they’re not mine, they’re Barney’s. I just work here ‘cause he’s my brother and he’ll actually give me a job. For another, I hadn’t even sat on a horse – aside from the vaulting I did with gymnastics – before I took the job. I just pretend I know what I’m doing.”

Clint wasn’t sure why he was confessing to a stranger, but Phil had the sort of face that asked for honesty. Besides, he was tired, and the quicker Phil got out of here the faster he could feed the horses and go nap for three hours.

To his surprise, Phil looked impressed. “It takes talent to learn a horses personality that well. I’d agree with your assessment of Carnival – most thoroughbreds don’t have a trot that nice, and his grandsire was particularly successful. Hawkeye wouldn’t be one that would first come to mind but if anyone can show him off it’s you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“On the contrary, I feel like the past half hour has taught me plenty about you.”

Clint squirmed under the scrutiny. “So, Carnival and Hawk? Should I pass that onto Barney for you?”

“Have a drink with me.”

Clint’s brain ground to a halt.

“What?” He finally responded with.

Phil’s face remained carefully blank. “Tell Mr. Barton that I’d recommend sending you to Tattersalls – you obviously know the horses – with Carnival and The Magnificent Hawkeye for the parade. Then come and have a drink with me.”

“No offence, buddy, but we’ve only just met. Why would you want to have a drink with me?”

“Because your obvious passion and care for the horses shows that you’ve got a good heart, you’re very attractive and your displays of flexibility keep making me want to fuck you. But I don’t fuck before the first date, so. Have a drink with me.”

Clint looked Phil up and down. The suit fitted well, and showed a decent body, but still.

“I don’t know anything about you.”

“I’m sure drinks will fix that. You’re under no obligation to do anything afterwards, and I’ll understand if you say no.”

Clint thought about it. He’d promised Jacques a drink tonight. But there was no reason Phil couldn’t come along – and Clint hadn’t been laid in an embarrassingly long time.

“Fine. I’m meeting a friend at the Rusty Crown at ten. Come along. But I’m not buying for you.”

Phil’s face broke out into a proper smile.

“I’ll see you later, then.”

/

Of course, they ended up fucking on the first date. And then the second. But then, Clint had never really expected anything else.


End file.
